


Two Front Teeth

by TheBeeThatHums



Series: Sherlock One Shots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Annoyed John Watson, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBeeThatHums/pseuds/TheBeeThatHums
Summary: Christmas is all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Things take a turn when you have an untimely meeting with the stairs and Sherlock is tasked to restore your Christmas spirit.





	Two Front Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth... and Sherlock. Scratch that just Sherlock. In a Santa hat.

You bounded up the stairs quicker than you normally would in excitement, it was Christmas Eve after all, and ended up tripping up them, your face making contact with the edge of one of the stairs.

Sherlock had heard you coming, you weren’t exactly quiet by any means, at least not unless you wanted to be, and had also heard the subsequent thud as had John, who tilted his head, ”What was that?”

He got up to investigate and when he opened the door came face to face with you, blood dripping from both your nose and a cut on your lip, “I sshink I csshipped a toossh.”

John sighed, not particularly surprised at your current state, and pressed one hand over his eyes, pointing to his chair with the other, “Go sit.”

You went to flop down in it grumbling as you wiped at your nose, “Shhnow I’m going to have to go to shhe dentissht. I hate shhe dentisshht.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at you and you scowled at him, curling your legs up into yourself to rest your cheek on your knee, “Ssshtupid Shhtairs.”

“It was hardly the stairs’ fault, love.” He deadpanned.

You glared at him, you were sitting here bleeding and your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to at least try and be a little sympathetic, and then sighed, it’s not like you really expected it anyway. You were glad John was his flatmate because in times like this he supplied the attention you needed that Sherlock either couldn’t or didn’t want to.

Sherlock shook his head, how you managed to be so graceful and yet so clumsy at the same time was beyond him. He knew you were excited about Christmas but was it really necessary for you to be this enthusiastic? You’d even dragged him into helping you decorate and such. It was tedious.

The only thing he’d even remotely enjoyed was the mistletoe, as it gave him an excuse to kiss you more often than he normally did, but ever since you’d gotten caught underneath it with John, giving him a quick peck on the lips, he’d begun to hate it more than anything else.

You weren’t hurt that badly, obviously nothing to be concerned about, and he was about to go back to playing his violin, leaving John to deal with that whole mess, when there was a glimmer of something that caught his eye. A tear. You were crying.

You’d been so cheerful the past few weeks it was annoying but he certainly preferred that to crying. You sniffled through the blood still dripping from your nose and ended up coughing as some of it went down your throat. This was not how you wanted to spend Christmas, looking like some gory freak from a horror movie with a messed up smile.

He frowned as he stood and went to where John was still gathering a few things to take care of your face to hiss, “Leave.”

John looked up at him confused, “What? Why? (F/n)-“

Sherlock glared at him, “I’ll take care of it.”

John could see Sherlock was serious and shrugged before going to his room with a mumbled curse under his breath. That man hardly ever showed you any affection, it was a wonder you hadn’t gotten fed up with it yet, and now all of a sudden he wants to take care of you? John would never understand how his mind came to these conclusions.

Sherlock took what he had gathered out to the other room and pulled the ottoman up to sit in front of you. You lifted your face to look at him, trying to keep any more tears from spilling, “Shhherlock? Where’shh John?”

He didn’t answer, instead tugging your ankle so your feet would fall to the floor, and then leaned forward to bring a hand to your chin so he could wipe the blood from your nose. He gave you a slight smile as he did so and it had the opposite affect than what he’d intended as you hiccuped and a few tears spilled down your cheeks.

He frowned as you pulled from him to duck your head and tried to wipe them away, “Shhorry. I’m shhuch an idiot. Whatsh kind of grown adult tripsh and shhhamshhesh their facsh on sshe shhtairs? Not to menshhion criesh about it…”

He took your face in his hands, “You are hardly an idiot (F/n). A little over enthusiastic at times but rarely an idiot.”

You were shocked enough by this that you stopped crying and he kept working on your face, quickly finishing with your nose, which had finally stopped bleeding, and then moving on to your lip.

He caught your chin again and tilted your head back, “Open.”

You did as he asked and he located the chipped tooth, tilting your head from side to side to get a good look at it, “It doesn’t look too bad. You’re lucky you didn’t knock out your front teeth entirely. Now let’s get that lip cleaned up shall we?”

You nodded, feeling like a small child as sadness once again welled up in your chest, and he leaned in close to press a wet towel to the cut on your lip, gently wiping it clean. His eyes flicked up to yours to find they were brimming with tears again and he felt his chest clench, he hated to see you upset.

He knew you were feeling childish for crying, and that you were feeling stupid and insecure for hurting yourself in such a ridiculous manner in your Christmas joy but he didn’t know what to say to make it better, pointing all that out would surely only make it worse.

You sniffled and he continued cleaning your lip, leaning back when he was done, “There. All better.”

You ducked your head down to rub at your nose, “Shhhank you Shherlock.”

He sighed and took your face in his hands again to carefully press a simple kiss to your lips, tasting the tang of blood and antiseptic that still lingered there, and then pulled away, “Don’t cry.”

You tried really hard not to, considering that he was as close to pleading as you can get with Sherlock, and chewed the uninjured side of your lip, but it was no use. You were beginning to question the whole season, the shock from your tumble shaking loose a number of insecurities that you’d pushed to the back of your mind.

The tears raced to your chin as you hiccupped, “I shhorry I made you decorate Shhherlock. I jusshht wanted Chrishhtmash to be perfectsh and for you to be happy.”

He sighed heavily and scooped you up to place you on his lap in his chair. You pressed your cheek into his shoulder, nuzzling your nose into his neck as you enjoyed this rare display of affection.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly and you let out a shaky sigh, “Why do you put up wishhh me Shhherlock?”

He chuckled and brought a hand to your cheek so you would look at him, “Because you are infinitely more interesting and intelligent than anyone else I know and because I love you.”

He pressed a kiss to your lips again and then you snuggled into him, one arm wrapping around his neck to play with his inky curls, “I love you too Shhherlock.”

“Merry Christmas (F/n)” he whispered into your hair and you sighed, it wasn’t the Christmas that you wanted but in its own way, you had to admit... it was kind of perfect.

“Merry Chrishhtmash Shhherlock.”


End file.
